


A Touch of Jazz

by TheMessrs



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Community: rs_small_gifts, Lie Low At Lupin's, M/M, wolfstar
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-09
Updated: 2012-12-09
Packaged: 2017-11-20 17:15:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,897
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/587807
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheMessrs/pseuds/TheMessrs
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sirius gets the word from Dumbledore to Lie Low at Lupin's, but bunking with his old friend isn't as easy as it was when they were still young and [mostly] innocent. Includes an inspirational piece of artwork.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Touch of Jazz

**Author's Note:**

  * For [escribo](https://archiveofourown.org/users/escribo/gifts).



> Written for the 2012 [rs_small_gifts](http://rs_small_gifts.livejournal.com). Art: Tired Souls by [Kinky-chichi](http://kinky-chichi.deviantart.com/art/Commission-Tired-Souls-342612999) at DeviantArt, commissioned for a friend.

When Remus opens his door that morning, the last thing he expects to see is a wet and sad looking dog. Had Dumbledore not owled him earlier in the week, informing him that Sirius would come to stay at his cottage for a bit, he'd swear this must be some stray.  
  
He lets the dog in and doesn't say a word about the tracked mud or rainwater-splattered walls. Padfoot's fur is standing on end after he's shaken off the excess water, reminding Remus of a very large, very wet hedgehog.  
  
In the next moment, Sirius takes the place of the dog in the hallway.  
  
'Sorry,' he says a little sheepishly, his gaze trailing down the muddy hall.  
  
Remus smiles patiently as he waves the apology away. 'Nothing a little  _scourgify_  can't take care of.'  
  
He looks thoughtfully over the other man's tatty appearance and seems to make a decision. 'First things first, let's get you a change of clothes. You look an awful sight.'  
  
Sirius laughs gruffly at the comment, but he follows as Remus leads the way up a narrow staircase. As he takes each step up, he secretly watches the fall of fabric over Remus's legs, not daring to lift his eyes any farther. The corduroy is too worn-looking, not to mention threadbare and baggy. A twist of something unpleasant lances through his stomach, which he dutifully ignores when they reach the top of the stairs and he's suddenly facing the man.  
  
'Would you care for a bath first? The heater isn't exactly functional —' At that Remus looks embarrassed, but he quickly covers it up with a forced smile, '— though I could cast a few heating charms instead.'  
  
'Fine, sounds good,' Sirius agrees.  
  
It's all so perfunctory — it feels like something is missing between them; some sort of warmth that was shared briefly that night in the Shrieking Shack. The unpleasant knot in his stomach slowly unfurls while Remus sets about drawing a bath and charming the ice cold water to an acceptable tepid.  
  
He can't help but wander a little. The last time he set foot in this cottage was back in fifth year, when he'd spent a week with the Lupins before rounding his summer off at the Potters'. He didn't pay much attention back then, but the place was so much smaller than James's or Peter's houses; and yet it was the homiest of them all.  
  
Just a ways down the hall, there's a door halfway open that beckons him in. The room is barely furnished or decorated. If it weren't for the faded old Holyhead Harpies poster from 1977 on the northernmost wall, Sirius would think this cottage was entirely unlived in. Given what he knows about John Lupin's unfortunate illness during the last year of his life, he wouldn't be surprised. But here they are, Remus finishing up in the bathroom while Sirius looks around.  
  
There's a utilitarian chest of drawers pushed up against the opposite wall, with only a single framed picture on top. Sirius softly pads over and picks it up. It's an old photo of the four of them sometime around… fourth year, maybe? James is waving and grinning like the mad idiot he was — Sirius feels his stomach clench up again — while the younger version of himself looks smugly at the camera and intermittently offers a thumbs up. He refuses to look at the pudgy  _rat_ , completely covering his face with a thumb.  
  
Next to him, fourteen-year-old Remus doesn't look too much different from how he remembers him. Simply dressed, thick hair parted to the left, a mysterious smile that could rival the Mona Lisa's on his lips. It's the brief little look he gives to his right that really catches Sirius's eye. At first he thinks it's directed at  _him_ , but after a few minutes looking at the picture, it's slowly dawning on him that the line of sight is slightly off. Before he has a chance to look back at teenaged James, he hears the footsteps out in the hallway.  
  
'All right?' Remus stands in the doorway with a handful of towels and spare clothes. His gaze flickers to the photo in Sirius's hand and he offers a tight smile.  
  
'I'm fine,' Sirius says quietly, setting the photo back onto the drawers.  
  
'Well, the bath is all set, whenever you're ready.'  
  
Sirius only nods and brushes past Remus, staunchly ignoring the hammering in his chest and the tunnel vision threatening to blind him.  
  
***  
  
It's at least an hour later when Sirius finally gets out of the bath. The water started out bearable, but by now it's practically frozen solid. The chill is nearly enough to make him forget about that photo in Remus's childhood bedroom.  
  
He stands naked before the waist-length mirror, curiously taking in his appearance. Being a convict hasn't been kind to Sirius. His ribs protrude like smooth stones in a shallow riverbed. The scraggly tips of his dark hair fall flat against his chest in wet tendrils, making him look a touch deranged. All of a sudden, the corners of his eyes crinkle up and he's laughing so hard it hurts, but he can't stop.  
  
'Sirius?' All common courtesy is set aside as Remus opens the door without an invitation. He looks wide-eyed at Sirius, probably thinking his friend has finally cracked completely.  
  
A few more chuckles escape Sirius's lips before he can grab hold of himself. His hands grip the sides of the sink and tears are streaming down his face from the hysterical laughter.  
  
Remus's hands are on his shoulders a moment later. He pulls Sirius over to sit on the toilet seat and wraps a towel around his shoulders, kneeling in front of him so they're nearly eye-level.  
  
'Sirius,' he repeats, his voice steady but clearly concerned, 'are you sure you're fine?'  
  
It takes a while for Sirius to process the question because his head is swimming. Remus looks a little blurry and the room is far too hot, but he manages to nod anyway. The sudden hands on his naked knees feel like searing coals burning into his skin, so he yelps and squirms back against the plumbing, eyes shut to stabilise his breathing.  
  
The hands are gone an instant later and he hears some shuffling and a few murmured spells. When he chances a look at the room, he sees a towel settling onto a rail above the rickety old radiator and the bath is scrubbing itself clean. Remus pockets his wand and turns back to Sirius with an apprehensive expression.  
  
'I'm  _fine_ ,' Sirius says automatically. He starts to rise, completely uncaring about his rather nude state, intent on convincing Remus that he needn't worry.  
  
The mirror mocks him quietly when he tries to look at it again, but this time, instead of laughter, it's a sigh that escapes him. Bony fingers run through the tangled up mess of his hair, snagging in so many places that he can't comb all the way through.  
  
'Remus,' he says, barely audible.  
  
The man in question immediately pokes his head back into the bathroom. When did he leave?  
  
'Yes?'  
  
Sirius decides something in his head, and then gives Remus a sidelong glance. 'I'm a right mess, aren't I?' He gestures helplessly at the monster of inky black atop his head. Remus shakes his head, a small smile on his lips.  
  
'I wouldn't say you're that bad. Need some help?'  
  
All Sirius can do is nod wordlessly. It's becoming a regular mode of communication between them, he's realising. Since when has Sirius had trouble expressing himself? He finds yet another reason to curse Azkaban as he glares at the mirror.  
  
The two men shuffle about in the bathroom until Remus has him settled on the toilet seat again, a towel around his waist and the one over his shoulders wrapped snuggly about his neck. Remus has charmed a hand mirror to float so he can see all angles as he's cutting.  
  
This time, the silence between them is considerably more comfortable. Neither of them talks about how Remus should cut his hair. It's somehow understood and Sirius only flinches a few times when hands brush across his shoulders.  
  
When fingers run softly against his scalp to comb out some of the loose hair, Sirius feels his pent-up tension slowly melt away. So of course, his mouth blurts out the first thing on his mind:  
  
'I didn't know you had a thing for James.'  
  
The tension returns like he's slammed into a brick wall face-first. The clatter of scissors makes him flinch, but he doesn't turn around as he hears Remus pick them up.  
  
'It… was a long time ago, Sirius,' his friend says, in a tone that says the matter is closed.  
  
That Remus didn't outright deny it doesn't escape him. Even so, he keeps his mouth shut and forces his shoulders to drop from their stiff position. He shuts his eyes to escape the dancing white spots when he thinks about that photo too hard.  
  
They finish up in the bathroom quickly. Not once does Remus touch him if he can help it.  
  
***  
  
Dressed and somewhat more presentable, Sirius emerges from the bathroom, intent upon finding something to assuage his dry throat.  
  
His feet guide him down the stairs, where he hears faint music coming from the small sitting room. It's a cosy little cottage, filled with happy memories from the one visit he had. The slow trickle of jazz seeping through the walls relieves the anxiety threatening to suffocate him. John Lupin passed down his love of jazz to his son, and Sirius finds that it's soothing, especially now.  
  
Upon entering the room, he spots Remus's old Victrola in the corner, slowly turning its vinyl recording of soft jazz. He remembers those huge black discs from their school days, when Remus would smuggle a few back from his winter holiday second year to stun his friends with. That whole first week, they sat around the Muggle contraption, amazed by the music it produced.  
  
Remus himself is seated on the battered but comfortable looking sofa, a fire reflecting off of his reading glasses as his eyes skim the page before him.  
  
Stepping slowly into the room, Sirius looks around, silently cataloguing everything he lays his eyes on. This room seems like it's the only one really lived in — no doubt the most comfortable room in the whole cottage.  
  
'Is that…?' he starts, wondering aloud.  
  
Remus looks up from his reading and smiles tentatively, probably worried about startling Sirius again. It's a bit discomfiting to know that he's being tiptoed around, but he shakes it off and walks a little closer, only stopping to lean against the armchair next to the sofa.  
  
'George Shearing, September in the Rain,' Remus confirms. 'This was the first record I brought back second year.' There is a definite fondness to his voice, prompting a wash of memories to flood Sirius's mind. He starts to smile before leaning more heavily against the chair.  
  
'We all thought it was some Muggle torture device when we first saw that thing. But when the music started pouring out…'  
  
'Love at first aural experience?' Remus supplies helpfully.  
  
Sirius laughs and nearly goes off-balance. 'Yeah,' he says, tensing up only minimally when Remus stands to help steady him. 'Sorry, I must be tired or… listen, do you have any tea?'  
  
Tawny brown eyebrows lift a little in surprise. Since when did Sirius ask for tea instead of coffee? But he doesn't question it.  
  
'Of course. Bagged, I hope you don't mind?' He's already heading into the kitchen. His wand is left behind on the scuffed coffee table.  
  
'Fine,' Sirius calls back. The abandoned newspaper sits next to Remus's wand, luring him in, so he sits in the spot his friend abandoned and picks up where Remus left off, right on the crossword page.  
  
For a few minutes, all he can do is squint at the block print. It isn't as though he hasn't seen words since his escape from Azkaban; he and Harry exchanged letters during his godson's fourth year at Hogwarts. But this,  _this_  is different. The whole crossword box looks like a foreign language and all Sirius can do is sigh gruffly as he's about to give up.  
  
Remus has been quietly watching from the doorway, but now he enters with a tea service that he sets on the old coffee table. The atmosphere is thick with that familiar, unspoken _thing_  between them, yet neither man addresses it.  
  
'Do you want me to read it to you?' Remus asks gently. He won't tease; he's too damnably kind for that.  
  
The paper is passed into waiting hands as Remus sits next to him on the sofa. Sirius goes about setting up tea for them both. It's pleasant, being able to sit side-by-side, the record turning itself over, and the fire keeping them feeling languid and warm. He lets himself be coaxed into a smile at the sound of words rolling effortlessly from Remus's lips, offering a few subtle hints to the crossword's questions.  
  
He's drawn to the profile of his friend — the slightly too-long nose, a faint smattering of freckles cascading down the bridge and spilling over onto his cheeks, the glow of the fire in downcast eyes.  
  
Before he knows it, they're shoulder-to-shoulder — paper, tea, and reading glasses long abandoned on the coffee table. They laugh at old stories from Hogwarts and break into an aged bottle of brandy that belonged to John Lupin.  
  
Remus's hand moves in slow motion when it takes the empty glass from Sirius's loose grip. Their fingers brush so lightly it's barely a whisper, but that  _something_  clicks into place and Sirius is leaning forward, his lips ghosting over the other man's in the first kiss he's had in over a decade.  
  
The record stops entirely — the only sound left in the room is the subdued crackling of the fire.  
  
Ever the saint, Remus sits still and lets Sirius take the lead. His arms pull Remus in and they're lying back on the sofa, lips meeting again for a leisurely, drawn-out kiss that starts tingles up Sirius's spine.  
  
He's never thought about kissing Remus like this before. There have been a few fleeting mental images of stolen pecks behind the greenhouses at Hogwarts, but he didn't think seriously about it until the twisting knot formed in his belly upstairs. When he realised that his friend might have once thought about James, his  _brother_ , like this.  
  
He knows it's irrational, but none of it matters because Remus is kissing him back and they're settling into a comfortable position. His back is angled sideways into the sofa with Remus pressed up against him, like two teenagers snogging in mum's sitting room.  
  
A little noise of disappointment escapes his throat when Remus breaks the kiss, but he still has his arms around Sirius's shoulders, so that's encouraging.  
  
'Why didn't you tell me, Sirius?' he says in a whisper.  
  
What can he possibly say to that?  _Gee Moony, I didn't think you were queer until I saw your younger self gazing longingly at Prongs_. It sounds ridiculous and jealous and it's completely and utterly true, but he can't possibly say it like that.  
  
Wide brown eyes are watching him curiously, patiently. Remus could probably wait forever for an answer.  
  
'Because I'm an idiot,' he blurts out, grinning to temper the words.  
  
Remus smiles in response and runs his hands through clean-cut black hair, lingering on his cheekbones like he's trying to memorise their sharp angles and the texture of Sirius's skin. His fingers are cold.  
  
'No more an idiot than usual, then,' he quips. And that's done it, because now Sirius is digging fingers into Remus's ribs and laughter is bouncing off of the walls. Arms and legs are poking into stomachs and throats, but it's the most carefree he's felt since the night he got to talk with Harry over a year ago.  
  
Finally, Remus concedes when his face is smashed up against Sirius's armpit.  
  
'To the victor go the spoils!' Sirius crows, while Remus squirms and jabs, muttering a few well-placed insults regarding Sirius's intelligence into the man's shoulder.  
  
Eventually Sirius shuts Remus up with a few more kisses.  
  
When the fire dies out sometime later, the two are completely entwined with legs dangling over the sofa arm and heads tucked into each other as they sleep. A collection of old blankets wrap around them like a cocoon against the world.  
  


 

***

Morning dawns much too early for his tastes. There's a crick in his neck and his left side feels numb, but he smiles when he remembers last night. His vision is bleary and his eyelids threaten to shut, so he leaves only one eye half-open to take in the sight.

Remus is still nudged up along his side like a long and lean puzzle piece wedged in place. The mass of worn blankets have migrated to their feet sometime through the night, yet he feels warmer than he has in a long time.

There are so many obstacles to face yet and challenges to overcome. The past will always come barging in unannounced like a shadow looming over them, but it's hard to let the old demons take hold this time.

He nuzzles into Remus's neck and smiles. At least they have the now.


End file.
